


if we were strangers

by iwritetrash



Series: be all my sins remembered [4]
Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Dolls House references, Heartbreak, Infidelity, Introspection, M/M, Paris (City), Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 09:12:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13633236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwritetrash/pseuds/iwritetrash
Summary: edward reflects on what could have happened if he had met alfred under better circumstances





	if we were strangers

**Author's Note:**

> i'm back with another part! 
> 
> there are some references to a dolls house by ibsen, because i just couldn't get the final scene out of my head when i was writing this, but like... you don't need to know the play to get what's happening. also i know there are differing translations but the quote i used is as it is in my copy of the play, just as a quick disclaimer. also i guess spoilers? if you don't want the ending of the play ruined then...uh...maybe don't read this. 
> 
> anyways i hope you like this!

Alfred has always been more the dreamer of the two, but, every now and then, when Edward is working on a particularly menial task Peel has set him, his mind wonders into another world. He’s built himself an alternative universe in his head for him and Alfred, and it’s one where Edward isn’t married, and where they meet purely by chance, and where nobody’s heart gets broken, because Florence isn’t in the picture, and Edward values Alfred over a political career.

So, here is how the story goes in his head:

They meet in Paris. Alfred is a writer, just like he had always said he wanted to be, and perhaps he’s ventured to the city of love to find inspiration. Edward’s purpose in Paris varies; sometimes he’s there on business with Peel, other times he is simply travelling to fill time, but he is in Paris too nonetheless.

Something, some trick of fate, brings the two of them together, and, instead of playing this game of heartbreak they’ve been stuck in, Edward asks Alfred out, and he says yes.

The next few months pass like a kind of montage of happy moments; the two of them would trawl the city and visit all the big tourist destinations, and laugh and joke around, and Edward would end up with most of his things in Alfred’s apartment because he spends every night there anyway, and so they’d move in together. Alfred would find the inspiration he was looking for by taking Edward for his muse, and he would craft the perfect novel, and it would be a huge success.

Everything would be perfect, an endless reel of kisses at the top of the Eiffel Tower, and strolling around The Louvre hand in hand, and dancing on the banks of the Seine, and spending their days in little patisseries, and maybe it’s a far cry from the life Edward had planned for himself, but it looks a hell of a lot better than the life he’s living now.

In this perfect world, heartbreak is nothing more than a ten letter word, and maybe things aren’t what he planned but somehow they’re better, and Edward spends every day wishing he could climb into that perfect world and live there just for a day, where Alfred doesn’t hate him, and he doesn’t have to worry about having a wife, and everything is simple.

But instead he must resign himself to his position rooted firmly in the real world. The real world is a world without Alfred. The real world is shit.

Perhaps a month or so after the last time he saw Alfred in that crappy, crappy hotel, Edward picks up his phone and texts a number he deleted, despite having memorised it years ago. It’s not fair to either of them, he knows that, but he can’t help it, because he’s sat at home on his own, drinking rum straight from the bottle and hoping Florence doesn’t come home early from the dinner she’s at with some old friends, and he misses Alfred. 

_Can I never be more than a stranger to you?_

Alfred has spent hours poring over the works of Ibsen, so Edward is certain he’ll understand the reference. Perhaps it is cruel of him to try and entice Alfred into replying. Or perhaps Edward already knows somehow that Alfred’s response will be that of Nora to Torvald.

_The miracle of miracles would have to happen._

Alfred’s response makes him smile even as his heart breaks. He wonders what their miracle of miracles is. Before he can ask, Alfred is already typing again. 

_If only we could start again._

Edward doesn’t need to ask what Alfred means. They would have to start anew, as though they were truly strangers again, and that was not likely to happen any time soon. But, at the very least, there is hope.

It feels peculiar to be on the other side of the cliff-hanger, living in that ending and praying for the miracle of miracles to occur and to reunite them. But he is not Torvald, and Alfred is not Nora, and this is not a play, this is reality, and he must live with his decisions, rather than ceasing to exist once the final curtain falls.  

Edward turns off his phone and drinks some more.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed this! i'm sorry they still aren't happy, but i'm working on that, i swear! they will be happy soon. this is just another step towards that happy ending!


End file.
